He is beautiful, even among the Gods. Not just a perfect body, but a perfect soul. He does not love her for her beauty, for she has none to speak of, not beauty like his mother, like him. He loves instead her strength, passion, determination, patience, hope.
He was sent to give her the love of a common man, to shut her up, to quiet her nagging. But instead it is he, broad-shouldered, thick-chested, slender-hipped, with powerful legs and a perfectly curved ass sprawled upon the disheveled sheets, lying in the coitus-induced sleep of men.
She hovers over him, candle in hand. The warmth of the candle light fades to the silver of moonlight at the edges of the room. There is no knife. She is not the mindless beauty of myth, but plain, sturdy, determined to see who would love her, who Venus would send after all the years of pleading, of sacrifice.
There were no sisters, only her own insecurity that led her to this act of insurrection. Her face is a myriad of emotions--love, always love; then fear, hope, surprise, recognition. Not just of who he is, but who she is, and what she is losing, what already has been lost as the hot wax drips from the candle.
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